There are multitudes who really loved him. Young misfits found him a transformative influence and have loved his music and him ever since. As with a private death the true lovers should be the ones with the greatest right to speak – and to sing. Analysis of musical and cultural importance will come along soon enough.
Those who complain about other people speaking and singing and weeping should STFU.
Julie Burchill scored highest for pointless mean-mindedness. I can put up with her going on about her ever fascinating self as she will often chuck in shrewd and funny insights but not this time with her "sob-signalling".
Brendan O'Neill who is usually the most annoying of contrarians wrote an excellent piece about how in the age of tabloid nosiness and celebrity scar flashing, Bowie stayed private. As Flaubert lived like a bourgeoisie and thought like a demi-god, so Bowie was a public spectacle and left his secrets for his intimates.
Back in '73 Martin Amis called Bowie 'a mild fad'. In his pompous youth Amis was sent off to Rolling Stones concerts and the like to produce disdainful writings. though he seems to have had less feeling for rock music than the average teenager blagging the latest album.
Amis's young and amoral characters are anachronistically uninterested in music, quite out of step with the Anglo youth of his times for which it was THE art form – their stories, their feelings, their own dreams as they strummed a guitar for a year or two and scribbled down lyrics. The young of the 70s and 80s without music are as odd as the present day young would be without Smartphones.
Skinheads used the dramatic apocalypse (bang not whimper) 5 Years
as a theme song and in Irvine Welsh's Trainspotting the characters are delicate about the right mood music to accompany their shooting up. Welsh's tribute was this:-
I daresay there are other notables who have refrained from writing one as well and haven't told us about their refraining.
The cybernats got a splash for their crappy behaviour but the Nats of my Facebook acquaintance were reacting like everyone else, sharing memories of gigs and the musical among them jamming the back catalogue. Nicola Sturgeon reminisced nicely about how as a wee girl she had listened to Major Tom over and over, to see if it could turn out right for him. Meanwhile Unionists have taken delight in putting round the picture of Bowie in full Union Flag regalia while Europhiles claim him as a European.
I am sad at his unexpected death and I can totally understand the flowers and the weeping from the real fans. I preferred his contemporaries Lou Reed and Pink Floyd and only owned Hunky Dory and Space Oddity. Still, all the well-known songs and words are sloshing in my head and here's one of my favourites played on an organ.
Life on Mars works on an instrument it wasn't written for and it works without the words as well, which is a test of a tune. It is one of those soaring rock anthems which for the 70s and beyond young people were our epiphanies, our hallelujahs. As Bowie said in Memory of a Free Festival:-
The Children of the summer's end
Gathered in the dampened grass
We played our songs and felt the London sky
Resting on our hands
It was God's land
It was ragged and naïve
It was Heaven
Oh, to capture just one drop of all the ecstasy that swept that afternoon
To paint that love upon a white balloon
And fly it from the toppest top of all the tops
The Sun Machine is Coming Down, and We're Gonna Have a Party